Singing Songs in My Head
by Exploding Pumpkinhead
Summary: Christine is running away from her past. She was in an abusive foster home; her foster father was Joseph Buquet. Erik Destler is the owner of a small, nondescript music shop. They both have wounds that are still festering after all these years. Can love and music mend these two broken souls? Story is better than the summary; I'm hopeless with writing them. Modern AU.
1. Free at Last

**A/N: I apologize for the abhorrent brevity of this chapter; this is kind of a test-run, to gauge interest levels and such. Also, this is not only my first PotO fic, but also my first multi-chapter fanfiction, so please be kind. All types of constructive criticism is welcome, but flaming is not and any reviews that contain "flammable" content will not be acknowledged in any way, shape or form. Any questions, comments, concerns, or suggestions are welcome - through PM's or through Reviews, whichever is most convenient for you.**

 **Disclaimer - All Phantom characters belong to Gaston Leroux. All OC's and the plot belong to ME! Steal the plot or the OC's, and I WILL find you.**

 **P.S. I don't have a beta, so please be forgiving if my grammatical errors slap you in the face every time you read a sentence.**

 **Chapter One -**

Christine was running. She didn't know where she was going, or how she would get there. All she knew was the feeling of her worn sneakers smacking the pavement, the feeling of the old backpack holding her hopes and dreams slamming repeatedly against her back, a steady rhythm amongst the boiling sea of chaos. Christine focused on those two things: _smack, slam, smack, slam, smack, slam…_ Looking back on it, running probably wasn't the best or wisest course of action. But Christine couldn't find it in herself to care too much; she was being pushed by the human race's greatest weapon and worst weakness: its closest ally and most powerful rival: fear. Fear pumped like liquid fire through Christine's veins, pushing her harder and faster. Adrenaline picked her up every time she fell; raw energy licked her wounds every time Christine felt past the point of healing.

Christine grinned, a rare expression to cross her face. She wasn't running away from her past; she was running towards her future. Christine wasn't forsaking old possibilities; she was welcoming new opportunities. After all, what did it matter? Maybe she _was_ running away, but Christine didn't care at all as long as she was getting _away_ from Joseph Buquet and the demons that had plagued her for so long.

Christine didn't know how long she had been running, only that she had fled under the cloak of darkness, and now was exposed by the cold, unfeeling light. After another half hour or so, the ache in her feet and the pain in her sides forced her to stop. Christine was lucky; she had run into a well-populated area, where plenty of benches were visible. Christine collapsed into one and rifled through her belongings. Two bottles of water - oh, how Christine wished she would have remembered those on the way here, a spare change of clothes, a couple cans of food, and the two hundred bucks she'd managed to sneak out of Buquet's money safe over the past five months. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. If Christine could find a cheap guitar, she could play and sing, and while she _definitely_ wasn't one to be vain, Christine knew she was good enough of a player to earn enough money to get by on until she managed to find a job. She had no idea where she'd sleep, or what she'd eat beyond the two cans of soup she'd brought with her, but at least she was _free_. Here, in this dank alleyway, with poor lighting and questionable characters, with rats scurrying about and the stench of the sewer permeating the air and turning stale, Christine had never felt better. She threw back her head and laughed the wild, manic, hysterical laugh of a prisoner just beginning to feel the sweet, succulent taste of freedom form on their parched and cruelly starved tongue.

Christine ate half of a can of soup and packed up her few belongings, looking for a cheap hotel. She eventually found a dingy little establishment, leaning on one side with thick, heady smoke curling out from the entrance, that boasted of cheap room and board. Christine smirked in satisfaction and rushed in. Normally, when someone as small and frail-looking as Christine entered such a questionable establishment, they would be singled out, harassed even. But when that someone's been through as much as Christine, the onlookers saw the dangerous gleam in her eye, the wariness of her stance, and the wiry muscles knotting her arms, and left her well alone. Christine walked forward, her chilly manner cooling the overly-heated room, and managed to haggle with the owner of the inn until she got the smallest room available for a reasonable price.

Christine walked into "her" room and turned to shut the door behind her before realizing there was no door. She shrugged and dug through the drawers, looking for something sharp. Finally finding a shard of an old mirror, Christine carefully cut a hole in the creaky, bed-bug infested mattress. She was reasonable certain that the manager wouldn't appreciate her defiling his property, but what the old man didn't know wouldn't kill him… this time.

After a bit more pushing and pulling, Christine was satisfied with the size of the and unobtrusiveness of the hole. Making sure the hallway was empty, Christine slid her backpack into the small alcove. It put a slight lump in the mattress, but the bed was already so lumpy that it went practically invisible. Someone would only find it if they knew where to look and what they were looking for. Finally appeased, Christine collapsed onto the rickety mattress, pulled the moth-eaten blanket up to her chin. Despite the huge adrenaline dump and her newfound freedom, Christine let sleep envelop her in its warm, enticing embrace - something she hadn't allowed to happen properly for years now.

 **A/N: Whew, first chapter! What were your thoughts? Favorite lines? Once again, I apologize for the embarrassing lack of length in this chapter, once I can judge interest levels and similar factors, and if there IS any interest, the chapters will be much, MUCH longer. Even if you read this and walked away in utter disgust, thank you for trying it out. If you liked it, drop me a review or a PM! That way I can know you liked it and get the next chapter up to you soon.  
Thank you,  
Exploding Pumpkinhead **


	2. A Most Consequential Meeting

**A/N: I just wanted to say thank you to Tenmonthsswift, PhantomFan01, and Melstrife for reviewing the first chapter. I also wanted to apologize because I just went back and reread the first chapter, and there were a TON of errors, so sorry about that! Once again, thank you to everyone who reviewed and followed/favorited this story; it means a LOT! We will be meeting our favorite masked man in this chapter. On that note, I have another apology to make. I am absolutely horrendous at writing dialogue between two people who do not know each other, so please try not to cringe to much at how stiff and forced the dialogue between Christine and Erik is at the beginning - it will get smoother and more natural; I promise!**

 **Disclaimer - I am not Gaston Leroux, therefore I do not own** _ **The Phantom of the Opera**_ **... unfortunately. And, as you will see in this chapter, the lyrics to My Chemical Romance's** _ **Cancer**_ **also do not belong to me. It's just a beautiful song that I thought went perfectly with Christine's feelings on her mother's death. I definitely recommend you give it a listen, as well as anything else by MCR! Enjoy the chapter, and once again, I apologize for the horrible dialogue!**

 **Chapter Two -**

Christine woke up in an unfamiliar place, and felt terror envelop her. It was like a cold bucket of water had been poured over her head as she struggled against the ropes that she was sure were holding her… until they fell away as the events of yesterday came crashing down on her like a big, emotionally traumatizing tidal wave from the beaches of Hell. If Hell had beaches, that is. The first thing Christine did was reach inside the mattress and grab her knapsack. She rifled through, making sure everything was still there - and panicked a bit when she only found $175 instead of $200, before she remembered that the bed she was sleeping in was not her own, and therefore she must have paid for it.

She let out a relieved breath before shoving everything back into the faded green bag and putting a mask of ice over her soft features. She crept downstairs and hunted the manager down, saying she wished to leave. She thanked him politely but coolly, and made her way out of the ramshackle hotel.

Christine knew she needed more money - and she needed it fast. After debating for a bit, Christine decided to go to the nearest music store and see if she could purchase a cheap guitar or similar instrument. It would be a tight squeeze for the first few months, but with her musical talent, Christine knew it would make her more money in the long run. Christine managed to hunt down a friendly looking man who was willing to tell her where the nearest music store was. She thanked him and hurried off in the direction he had pointed before she would forget his instructions.

Ten minutes later Christine arrived in front of an endearing little storefront with an old sign that read "Erik's Music Shoppe - Instrument Repairs, Sales, Rentals, and Evaluations," in fancy red script above the door. Christine caught her reflection in the mirror and grimaced - she looked like she had been run over by a semi-truck. She desperately tried to smooth her hair and wipe the dirt from her face, but she still looked a mess. She sighed and shrugged, she was going to hopefully purchase an instrument, not attend a wedding.

Christine pushed through the door and a bell rang in her ears pleasantly. She looked around and immediately stopped. All of these instruments were beautifully made, each one designed by hand and made with love and tenderness. Christine groaned inwardly - she'd _never_ be able to afford any of these.

She was about to turn around and march out of the store empty-handed before a sonorous voice captivated her and rooted her to the spot. "Can I help you, Miss?" The voice inquired politely. Christine didn't know why, if asked she wouldn't have been able to tell you, but something about that voice made her stay. She turned around and nodded apprehensively. "Yes, I do, actually, Sir. Thank you," she started, and then trailed off. The man was wearing a leather mask over the right side of his face. Christine shrugged it off, after all, she had her own skeletons residing in her metaphorical closet too, so who was she to judge? She started back up again, her voice stronger than it had been. "I was wondering if I could try out some of your guitars - electric and accoustic, if that's alright with you?" Christine desperately hoped he said yes - even if she couldn't afford these instruments, she wanted to at least feel the power only music could give her; she wanted to breathe these cold instruments to life with her well practiced hands. So caught up in her dreams of music was she that she barely noticed the masked man's affirmation that she could, indeed, sample the instruments.

Christine grinned her thanks at him, grabbed a black and white electric that had caught her eye, and asked the man for a plectrum and an amplifier. He fetched them for her. The two other customers were sending her strange glances, but Christine didn't care at all.

She took a deep breath and stroked the fretboard lovingly. Christine's hands started picking out a simple tune before she let her eyes flutter shut. Christine put her mind on autopilot and put her heart in drive. She let her fingers express everything words could not - her sorrow, pain and misfortune. She let the notes flow in and out of her mind, creating a beautiful web spun of chords and fingerings and pure, beautiful _sound._ Christine poured her soul into that guitar, she lived and breathed for nothing else except that moment, that sensation that put her on cloud nine. She wasn't playing for the two staring customers or the masked man with the captivating voice. She didn't even play for herself. She played this music for… music. And through the harsh, raw sound emanating from the guitar did her broken soul at last begin to mend. But as much as this piece was saving her; it was also destroying her. Unable to take any more of the torture, Christine played a final note before letting it dissolve into silence.

When Christine opened her eyes, she saw the two customers applauding loudly, and the masked man staring at her with his mouth agape and wonder in his eyes. Eventually, the man managed to wrench his jaw open and ask, "how many instruments do you play?" Christine merely smiled slightly and began to count them all out. "Well, let's see. I play the guitar, obviously, the violin, the cello, the piano, the saxophone, the clarinet, the flute, the trumpet, and a few others…" Christine hesitated before adding, "I-I sing, too."

The man looked suitably impressed at the considerable amount of instruments Christine could play. He then asked her to give him a demonstration of her singing voice. Christine immediately wanted to refuse and run out of the store, but there was something in the masked figure's voice and eyes that made her trust him enough to share her voice with him. He had, after all, allowed her to play the finest guitar she had ever held before, without demanding payment or anything.

"Okay," she agreed nervously, "I guess it's only fair, since you let me take that beautiful instrument for a spin." The man smirked slightly, but it didn't reach his eyes. Christine cleared her throat nervously. "Do you have anything in particular you'd like to hear?" The man shook his head. Christine nodded at the piano displayed in the center of the shop, clearly asking if she could play it. The man nodded again, and as she sat down, he asked her what she would be singing. Christine thought frantically for a moment before settling on a piece she had written so many years ago. She didn't want to share something this personal with a man she didn't know at all, but something about him made her want to do her best, and this was her best piece.

Christine replied in a soft, slightly trembling voice, "Umm, well, if it's alright with you, I'll sing a song I wrote shortly after my mother's… d-death." The man nodded and asked her what it was called. "Cancer," she replied softly, "after the disease that killed her." The man nodded, and although his gestures and manner had not changed at all, his face had softened in sympathy.

Christine licked her lips and ran through a few basic warm-ups. Once her voice and fingers were warmed up, Christine played the song she had written to help her through those long, tear-filled nights at her foster homes, some of them possessing pianos or keyboards, some of them she would just sing herself to sleep during the cold nights when she had nothing but darkness and music to hold her.

Christine started playing a simple sequence of chords, clearly meant to merely provide a background for the lyrics, and draw attention to them, rather than put the focus on the piano. Christine closed her eyes as memories flooded her, and began to sing in a dream-like, yet still pain-filled haze,

 _Turn away,_

 _If you could get me a drink_

 _Of water 'cause my lips are chapped and faded_

 _Call my Aunt Marie,_

 _Help her gather all my things_

 _And bury me in all my favorite colors_

 _My sisters and my brothers, still_

 _I will not kiss you_

' _Cause the hardest part of this_

 _Is leaving you_

 _Now turn away_

' _Cause I'm awful just to see_

' _Cause all my hair's abandoned all my body_

 _All my agony_

 _Know that I will never marry_

 _Baby I'm just soggy from the chemo_

 _But counting down the days to go_

 _It just ain't living_

 _And I just hope you know_

 _That if you say_

 _Good-bye today_

 _I'd ask you to be true_

' _Cause the hardest part of this_

 _Is leaving you_

' _Cause the hardest part of this_

 _Is leaving you_

As the final notes faded into silence, it was now the masked man whom was applauding and the two onlookers who were stunned into silence. Christine had sung the best she had ever sung before, for the music, for herself, for her mother, and most of all, for the strange masked man. That song had always been extremely emotional for her, however, and to her mortification, Christine found that all of her emotions had decided to catch up with her at that exact moment and she burst into tears. After she had calmed down a bit (and soaked the man's handkerchief thoroughly), Christine apologized profusely, explaining that that particular song had always been a bit difficult for her.

The man smirked slightly. "Never mind it, Miss. The lyrics speak for themselves as to how difficult that piece is for you. Now, is there anything I can help you with?" Christine had the grace to look embarrassed. "Well," she started, "you see sir, I was hoping to come here and find a cheap guitar to earn myself some money, but all of these are of such a fine make that I doubt I'd be able to afford any of them." The man nodded at this and pursed his lips. "Normally, Miss," he started thoughtfully, "I would leave it at that, but talent such as yours should not be limited by something as mundane as the limitations of currency. Now, I wonder if perhaps I could help you out. How much money do you have?" "Well," Christine blushed, "I have $175 total, but I'm willing to spend as much as $150. I'm sorry but that's as much as I'll spend; it's probably more than I should." The man nodded again. "I could help you out, I think. I have a proposition: Our cheapest guitars are around $200. I'll spot you the fifty dollars, if you work here on weekdays from 8:00AM to 5:00PM until you've paid off your debt. Does that sound fair?" Christine blinked, barely able to believe this man's kindness. "Yes, Sir, that's more than fair. Forgive me, sir, but may I ask your name?" The man smiled and said in that delightfully captivating voice of his, "Erik. Erik Destler." Christine's eyes widened as she realized that he must be the manager; his name was on the door, and she replied, "Christine, sir. Christine Daaé. Thank you so much for this opportunity; you have no idea how much it means to me. When can I start?"

The man pondered this for a moment before replying. "Does tomorrow at the appointed starting time work for you?" Christine nodded and thanked Mr. Destler once more before leaving the shop. So happy that things were finally working out for her, Christine did not notice the shocking green eyes that were boring holes in her back as she made her way out of the music shop.

Christine decided that it wasn't worth the extra fifteen dollars she would lose to stay at that old hotel another night, so she decided to find a relatively safe-looking park and claim a bench. Finally finding a park that many children were playing at, Christine found an unoccupied bench and fell asleep. Though the night was cold, she did not shiver; for she lay under a blanket of stars.

 **A/N: Woohoo, chapter two is DONE! Thank you to everyone who reviewed/favorited/followed. Please, keep doing what you're doing. Also, this chapter is dedicated to Tenmonthsswift for being my first reviewer! Thank yo so much, and thanks to all who reviewed. Tenmonthsswift, you earned a virtual dessert of your choosing.**

 **Thank you again,  
Exploding Pumpkinhead**


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